


The 10 Commandments of Grits

by Zauzat



Series: The 10 Commandments of Grits [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-30
Updated: 2010-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/pseuds/Zauzat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where McCoy goes all southern over his breakfast bowl and Kirk discovers just how sexy that can be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 10 Commandments of Grits

  
Jim ambled into their kitchenette, where his room-mate was fiddling with the hotplate. Running a hand through bed-head hair, Jim peered sleepily over his shoulder at a pot of grey-white sludge. "Dude, what _is_ that?"

"Grits, Jimmy boy, grits. The official prepared food of Georgia! I ain't had decent grits in a coon's age."

"In a what?" Jim stared at him, perplexed.

"What's with you, Bones? You don't cook your own breakfast. I've never seen you eat that stuff before."

"That's because the garbage that comes out of the replicators with the bare-faced cheek to call itself grits makes library paste look good. But this, kid, this right here," he gestured proudly at the pot where the grey slop was slowly swelling, "this is the genuine article." His accent was noticeably thicker than usual and he drawled out the gen-u-ine as if it was three separate words.

Jim leaned against the counter, yawning. "But Bones, it's just ground up bits of white corn, right?"

Leonard turned on him in horror. "Dear God in the mornin', Jim, how can you say such a thing? Grits should be made from hominy. Now for y'all northerners who are dumber than a box of rocks, hominy is produced by soaking dried corn kernels in lye water, a corrosive solution made with wood ashes which removes the hull and germ . The hominy is then dried and milled by hand between two granite stones. And don't you accept anything less, kid! Commercially made so-called grits are done by steaming the corn kernel, and then grinding way too fine. All the goodness is gone. And what's the use of that?" he demanded indignantly.

"But Bones, it's just the same stuff as Cream of Wheat, right?"

"Bless your heart, Jim, but I swear you are too dumb to pour pee out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel! Cream of Wheat is a pathetic northern attempt to create a synthetic grit and it's the most evil thing y'all have done since the War of Northern Aggression."

"The war of what?" Jim spluttered. "Are you referring to the civil war by any chance, which was like centuries and centuries ago?"

"We've got long memories down south, kid. History is just current affairs that happened a long time back. Now stop changing the subject. The key ingredients of Cream of Wheat are Elmer's Glue and styrofoam. It's a well known fact. Those synthetic grits may leave you unable to have children. This here, this is the real thing, sent to me by my ever-blessed great aunt, Ms Geraldine, and a mighty fine woman she is."

"Right, right, I get it," Jim replied, rolling his eyes. "It's important stuff, Bones."

"Don't you sass me, kid. It's more than that. It's the food of life itself. Down South it's widely believed that that mysterious manna that God rained down upon the Israelites during their time in the Sinai Desert, that was most likely grits."

Leonard stared contemplatively at the contents of the pot before continuing. "Of course, not everyone agrees. There are those that argue that there is no record of butter, salt or cheese raining down from the sky and a loving God would not punish his chosen people by forcing them to eat grits without these key ingredients."

"You're having me on with all this, right?" Jim asked, incredulous. "And dude, that doesn't look healthy," he continued, as Leonard removed the pot from the stove and added a remarkably generous portion of butter. "I thought you were all about healthy diet and all that nutritional shit."

Leonard gawked at him with wide-eyed surprise. "Kid, you ain't got the sense God promised a billy goat on a good day. This here ain't food, Jim, this is _grits_. It's in a category all of its own."

He gestured proudly at the pot. "Just look at that colour, at that wondrous shade of yellow. Ain't that a sight for sore eyes? You know how you judge it just right, Jimmy? Hold a banana or a yellow rain slicker next to your grits. If the colours match, you've just the right amount of butter.

"If you'll just pass me the salt... much obliged. Now this is a precise art as well. For every ten grits, you should have one grain of salt."

"Oh come off it, Bones, you cannot tell me that you counted the damned grains."

"A southern boy just knows, Jim, we absorb it in our momma's milk."

"It still looks like grey slop, Bones. Wouldn't it be better with syrup or something?"

"Dammit Jim, you can't do that. The very first of the 10 commandments of grits states that Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits."

"Grits have commandments?"

"Of course they do. Moses had them written up on the back-side of those stone tablets."

Bones poured the slop into a bowl and rummaged in the drawer for a fork, which he then waved around importantly.

"Commandment number 2: Thou shalt not eat thy Grits with a spoon."

Bones lent back against the kitchen counter and lifted a lump of glop into his mouth. His eyes closed. The line that seemed permanently etched between his eyebrows relaxed. Jim could swear he was humming as he sucked on the fork.

"Now that, darlin', is a piece of pure heaven."

Jim stared, momentarily speechless. He was familiar with all the looks of gruff, grumpy, grouchy Bones. But a Bones with eyes closed in ecstasy was a new experience and it was causing an odd tingling in the region of his groin.

Casting about for anything to say to distract them both from his tightening trousers, Jim blurted out: "But Bones, it's hot down there, isn't it? Why would you want to eat this stuff?"

"Hot it is, Jim, hot the way God meant it to be, hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch."

"You are making this stuff up, Bones! People don't really talk like that, do they?"

"And how do you think a goat feels in a pepper patch, Jim? You put your genius mind to work on that one, farm boy, while I get on with the serious stuff here."

Leonard was once again chewing slowly on a mouthful with his eyes closed, the fork cradled in his long fingers. Jim noticed just how long the other man's eyelashes were, dark against soft skin. He looked so much younger with his scowl gone and his full lips curved in a small smile. Maybe there was something to this grit business after all.

Curious, Jim reached out a finger to swipe a bit. Leonard snatched the bowl away.

"You'd best not be doing that, kid. Commandment number 3", he growled, holding the bowl possessively against his chest, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's grits."

"But Bones, I thought you southerners were supposed to be all friendly and welcoming and shit. Shouldn't you be sharing?"

"Well now, Jim," Bones replied, deliberately drawling his words, "that may be true and all, but it's all down to a bit of a misunderstanding. You see, we say things like, "Ya'll come see us, now, ya hear." "Come on up on the porch and sit a spell." "Ya'll just stay for dinner, we got a plenty, sides, momma needs to clean out that pantry so she'll have room to can some more." "Eat all the chicken you want. They's a dying faster than we can eat 'em." But see, we don't _mean_ any of that stuff. You call 'fore you come and you go eat in your own house, ya hear."

Leonard grinned evilly and continued to make love to his bowl of grits.

"Well, thanks a bunch Bones, I'll keep that in mind should I ever come visiting. Seriously though, can't you even spare a bite for your best friend in the whole world? And might I mention that with an attitude like that, probably your only friend."

"Ah, Jim, Jim, I learnt this one at my Daddy's knee, when I was just knee high to a bull frog. And believe me, when Daddy talks, you listen. All good southern boys know that a belt serves a greater purpose than just holding Daddy's pants up. And he always said to me that you never loan your tools, your pick-up, nor your gun to nobody. And the same goes for your grits."

Jim tried pouting, but Leonard was having none of it. He calmly continued to push the loaded fork between those plump lips and then suck on it like it was God's own lollipop. Jim was finding those lips quite mesmerizing, how had he never noticed just how succulent they were. The food stacked on the fork still wasn't looking good, though.

"Come on Bones, that stuff looks awful. Can't you put anything with it?"

"Commandment number 4: Thou shalt only use Salt, Butter and Cheese as toppings for thy Grits. Cheese is a possible addition, Jim, but it has to be added just right - cut into quarter inch squares and added immediately before you eat. It must never be allowed to melt completely."

Leonard took another forkful, cheeks bulging as he filled his mouth, throat working in sensuous ripples as he swallowed. Jim found himself oddly captivated by the movement of Bones' Adam's apple.

"I can't believe that you can get this excited over a foodstuff, Bones, up to now you've just shovelled food in like a necessary evil."

"Which is what the god-forsaken food here is, Jim. Y'all up north wouldn't know a decent meal if it crawled out from under the porch and bit your behind. Now this, this and Georgia peaches, I reckon that's what heaven's made of."

"Heaven is sounding a bit boring, then. Can't you spice it up a bit, jalapenos or something?"

Leonard stared at him in horror. "No you damned well can't. Damned Texan treachery. Commandment number 5: Thou shalt not put jalapenos in thy grits. And number 6 is relevant here too: Thou shalt not bake thy grits. "

Jim took advantage of Leonard's pontificating to swipe a finger into the bowl and suck off the goo on it. "Ew, Bones, it tastes like glue. And frankly, that's being insulting to glue. I really think syrup might make all the difference."

Bones rapped the offending hand hard with his fork.

"Commandment number 7, you philistine. Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits."

"We've had that one already," Jim protested, rubbing his abused hand.

"It bears repeating. In fact it's important enough that commandment number 8 is also: Thou shalt not put syrup on thy Grits. And so is commandment 9."

"Oh, and I suppose that it's commandment 10, too?" Jim asked sarcastically.

"Oh dear lord, of course it isn't, you heathen. I swear, if brains were leather, you wouldn't have enough to saddle a junebug. Commandment 10 states that Thou shalt not put sugar on thy Grits either."

Jim watched as Leonard started to scrape round the side of the bowl, lips working the tines of the fork in an utterly obscene manner.

"Right, so basically you can't have any fun at all. Bones, the world has blueberry pancakes in it. Blueberry pancakes that you are allowed, indeed encouraged, to smother in sweet maple syrup. How on earth can that slop be better than that?"

Jim was saved from the disdainful raise of Leonard's eyebrow by the buzz of the other man's comm. A quick glance had him putting down the nearly empty bowl and grabbing for his medical kit. "Emergency call to the hospital, Jim. Big hover-car pile-up, multiple victims. Always knew man wasn't meant to fly. See you later." And in a flash good ol' southern boy Lenny had transformed into Leonard McCoy, MD, PhD, and Dr McCoy was out the door.

Jim picked up abandoned bowl and peered into it, as if seeking in the patterns of the final scrapings of grits the meaning of the universe, or at least a clue to his own future. Taking Leonard's fork, he ate up the last leavings, sucking thoughtfully on the tines that had so recently been in the warm, wet depths of his friend's mouth. It was no good, it still tasted like library paste. Even syrup wasn't going to redeem something this dire.

But still, he thought, looking forlornly into the empty bowl, if it got Bones to look at him with that combination of possessiveness and lust, to let him in between those plump lips, to call him darlin' in that sexy southern accent, Jim would happily be reborn as a bowl of grits.

\- THE END -

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: 101 Uses for Bourbon


End file.
